


Ticket to Heaven

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Chester, un-requited love isn't all it's cracked up to be. And he's so busy trying to cope he doesn't realise how fast he's going down hill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Communal showers and revelations

Chester waves to the crowd and heads off stage and thinks that, if God loves him, there should be a hot shower waiting for him because his body aches like it never has before. He watches Rob head into the dressing room ahead of him and wonders how the hell he does it – drumming. He guesses that his ache is nothing compared to Rob’s and his arms begin to throb immediately at the idea.

He turns his back to Rob who stands across the room from him and undresses swiftly. He couldn’t give a shit about people seeing him naked, it’s the seeing other people that he can’t handle. Like Rob. Specifically Rob. But not for the same reasons he couldn’t handle seeing Joe naked. He thinks seeing Rob naked would be far more of a treat.

Wrapping a towel around his waist he follows the drummer through the door to the showers and walks straight into his back. He goes to swear and tell him to move but then he looks past the smooth skin stretched across the expanse of Rob’s strong back and into the room.

Communal showers.

Oh fuck.

He wonders how long he’s been standing there staring straight ahead when Rob turns around to raise an eyebrow at him saying “Ches’?”

And Chester says “Umfguhmeh.”

Rob laughs. So at least he’s funny. Incoherent, suffering a nervous breakdown and quite possibly hard as granite but he still made Rob laugh. So not everything sucks. He’s so busy looking on the bright side that he very nearly forgets about the communal showers and very nearly misses Rob dropping his towel to the floor and stepping forward to turn on the water.

What he doesn’t miss is the way all the blood in his body runs to his cock when the water streams from the shower head and hits Rob’s body, cascading over his tan skin. The drummer groans appreciatively as the warm water soothes his aching muscles and it’s all Chester can do not to groan, too.

After a long moment of thinking about Joe naked, bent over with his hands around his ankles and his ass in the air he is mentally prepared to drop the towel and step under the water, leaving plenty of space between him and Rob. He turns his back to the drummer and tilts his head back letting the water fall over his face.

He spins around, his eyes gazing about the shower and stopping to stare in disbelief at the bar of soap at Rob’s feet. He’s saying it before he can even believe it and his tone is completely blank “Pass the soap?”

Rob drops his hands from where they were running through his hair to stare dazedly at Chester. He frowns slightly and Chester tries not to blush when he laughs quietly and murmurs “Sure.” Kicks it over and it slides along the tiles until it comes to a halt directly in between them. Chester stands frozen for a moment, staring at the soap and trying not to raise his eyes knowing that, once they land on Rob’s crotch he won’t be able to tear them away.

Stretching a foot out he tries to drag the soap towards himself and fails miserably and, as always, his mouth is one step ahead of his brain and he whines petulantly. After a moment of death-staring the bar of soap he shuffles towards it and bends his knees, sinking to the floor in a crouch. Grabs the soap. Straightens his legs and…hello, Rob’s crotch, how are you?

Chester looks away quickly and straightens up, shuffling toward his own shower head, burning with shame. Burning with something else, too, but the less he thinks about that the better. He casts his mind back to the show and thinks about the heady bass and the drums and how great it felt to be back on stage. He put his entire being into that performance. I’m paying for it now though, he thinks wearily as he rubs a hand over his aching shoulder.

It’s becoming harder and harder. To concentrate, that is, and Chester’s thinking that he’d be willing to forego the shower and suffer the aches and pains because that is so much more appealing than staying here and having to lie. Yeah, you know, we’ve been on the road for months. I miss my wife. I need some pussy.

He scrubs at his eyes tiredly and turns to Rob, about to open his mouth and hopefully not stick his foot in it when Rob glances up at him questioningly. His eyes are dark with something Chester thinks could be lust. Hopes it is, because he’s already stepping closer until they’re sharing a shower head.

Rob watches in silence until Chester is right in front of him, standing on his toes slightly. He leans in and brushes his lips gently against the drummer’s and, in his head, Rob wraps his arms around him, dropping his hands to cup his ass. One hand trails slowly up his back as the kiss deepens and Chester drapes his arms over Rob’s broad shoulders and their hips meet in a rough grind.

In reality, though, Rob grabs Chester’s shoulders and pushes him away hissing “W-what are you doing?”

Oh fuck. The look in Rob’s eyes wasn’t lust, then. More likely that he was wondering why his friend was eyeing him like a prime steak. He thinks he may have even licked his lips but prays he didn’t. As if this situation could get any worse.

He stares helplessly into the unreadable eyes of the man in front of him for a long moment before the door bursts open and Brad comes in wearing a towel slung low on his hips, closely followed by Mike.

“Hello ladies,” Brad smirks and drops the towel shamelessly, making his way over to one of the shower heads.

Mike drops his towel and blushes furiously, staring at the ground. He shuffles over to the shower head next to Rob who turns to face him, murmuring something softly that makes the emcee beam and lean in.

Chester can’t quite believe his eyes when their lips meet in a deep kiss. He tries not to stare but it’s impossible. Behind him Brad coughs “Come on you guys, get a fucking room.”

They break away looking guilty and Chester wonders if he’s the last person to find out about this. He grabs his towel from the floor by the door and scurries out of the room as fast as he can, bumping smack into Joe in the changing room. “Woah man, where’s the fire?”

He clings to his towel desperately and tries to come off as nonchalant as he says “Mike and Rob are macking on each other,” Chester clears his throat in an attempt not to sound like a fifteen-year-old whose voice is breaking which he’s pretty sure he does right now, “It’s all a bit…”

Joe pulls a face “Yeah.” He pauses and frowns, “So Rob finally told you?”

Finally?

“Finally?”

“Yeah,” The DJ shrugs, “He didn’t want you to know or for any of us to tell you.”

“Why the fuck not?!”

“I guess he thinks you’re...” he trails off and shrugs again, “Maybe he thought you wouldn’t accept it?”

That’s a stupid excuse and Joe knows it but the expression on his face lets Chester know that he’s grasping at straws. He claps Joe on the back and mumbles something about it being cool and passes him, heading over to his locker and pulling out the first pants he comes across.

Once he isn’t dripping all over the cold concrete floor any more he throws his towel across the room and glares at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. He’s still slightly in shock. His reflection flexes its muscles and bares its teeth at him as he tries to get his head around it all.

Mike and Rob? And Rob didn’t want him to find out?

Maybe he thinks he’s a homophobe. But Chester thinks that all the humping and kissing of the other guys would prove that he’s more than fine with that kind of thing. He sincerely hopes he hasn’t been coming across as the world’s biggest homophobe all this time when, really, he feels like all he’s ever done is flirt with Rob.

Or maybe that’s it. Maybe Rob hates the idea of Chester flirting with him so much that he couldn’t tell Chester he was gay thinking that, if he came out, Chester’s flirting would increase tenfold and he couldn’t handle it.

He blows himself a kiss in the mirror and tries not to get down about it all. He’s pretty sure that before Rob pushed him away in horror or disgust or confusion he kissed back. Or maybe he’s just being disgustingly optimistic.

There’s a first time for everything.

***

Days pass and nothing is said. Chester doesn’t want to be the one to broach the subject and waits patiently for an explanation that he obviously isn’t going to get. Since the shower incident he has tried his best not to avoid Rob but it’s hard not to avoid someone when you’re being avoided.

Eventually he can’t take it any more. Corners Mike. Well, it isn’t so much cornering as it is that they have mic check together and they’re alone on the stage counting 1, 2 to the sound room at the centre of the arena.

“One, two, when were you going to tell me about you and Rob?”

Mike raises and eyebrow, “One, two, one, two. He told me not to tell you.”

“Why? One, two.”

“He…he felt bad. He knew you liked him and didn’t want to hurt you, I guess,” Mike says quietly away from his microphone, “One, two, one, two.”

“He knows I do what?” Chester stares at Mike in disbelief. How could he have known? He is well aware that he flirted with Rob but he’s pretty sure he flirted with everyone just as much. He thinks about the rumours that are always flying around about him and Brad and how they’re destined to be together and how Brad pulled a face so Chester chased him around the bus for a kiss. Which he got, in the end.

“Don’t worry...he hasn’t told anyone. Just me. One, two. One, two. Because I made him.”

So Mike probably knows about the awkward kiss in the communal showers, then. Fuck. Chester feels like he should apologise but Mike doesn’t seem to mind, goes right on counting back and forth and singing lines from ‘In the End’ out of tune. After a moment he turns to Chester and sighs “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He wants him to say he’s breaking up with Rob. He wants to hear “He’s all yours” tumble from Mike’s lips but all he gets is “One, two. One. Two.”


	2. Carve your name into my arm

They’re back at the hotel and Chester sits on his bed. They don’t share any more since Brad decided he wanted to take girls back to his room at night and nobody wants to be in the same room when that is going on. Brad has no concern for anybody but himself, yet Chester still finds himself calling him.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Brad. Can I talk to you?”

There’s noise in the background, water running, then Brad saying, “Sure. Is this about Rob?”

“Why would it be?”

“I heard he told you about him and Mike.”

Chester rolls his eyes and starts to say “He didn’t tell me exactly he more…Brad?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you peeing?”

Brad sounds appalled when he spits out “No way!” But the sound of a toilet flushing betrays him and he says “Not any more.”

“You’re disgusting. Have I ever peed whilst I was on the phone to you?”

“No.” Brad says “But you were getting a blowjob one time.”

True. He was. But at least he didn’t come or anything. It was a girl and, as pretty as she was, she would never fulfil his Rob-on-his-knees-with-his-mouth-around-his-cock fantasy. He bites his lip ring and sighs “Moving on…”

“So he didn’t tell you?”

Chester reminds him about the showers and how, momentarily, it was as if he didn’t exist and Mike didn’t even see him. He’s itching to tell Brad about how he feels but something in the back of his head says not to. “No. Mike walked in all naked and they kissed.”

“Well that could mean anything! Me and Mike used to kiss all the –”

“Shut the fuck up Brad I get it okay.”

In the background Chester can hear Brad turn on the TV to something where everybody speaks with an Australian accent. And Brad says “Why does this matter so much to you?”

In the background the TV goes “Blimey, Elle.”

Chester sighs “I kind of...have a thing for Rob.”

Elle, on TV, says “Shut up, Dylan,” filling the silence between Chester and Brad which seems to stretch on for a thousand years and back.

Eventually the guitarist says “Awesome.”

Chester gives the wall a blank stare and mutters “Yeah it’s fucking fantastic.”

“No, really. You’d make a cute couple.” Brad says. He could be smiling. That’s how his voice sounds – like he’s smiling.

“Yeah? You know who else makes a cute couple?”

“Ooh!” Brad all but squeals excitedly “Who?”

“Mike and Rob.”

There’s silence down the line for a long moment before Brad says “Oh. I get it.”

Chester thinks about not-so-bright-bulbs and not-so-sharp-pencils and wonders why he chose Brad to talk to.

***

It gets harder after that. Knowing you can never have something increases your desire. For most things you can find a substitute. If Chester wanted a burger and couldn’t have it he could have a sandwich. But this is Rob he wants. He wishes there was a substitute for Rob but for some reason mental images of making out with Brad spring to mind and he starts to worry about his own mental stability.

He’s sitting on the front couch of the bus thinking of a solution to his problem. In the end he decides that there isn’t one…and that he really wants a burger. Or a sandwich. Something cheese related would be nice. But Joe is on the bus with them so there’s probably nothing left. He could always get up and check, but that would mean physical exertion and he’d rather avoid it.

At first it was impossible to look Mike in the eye. It would probably be hard with Rob too but, since the drummer had gone to every length to avoid Chester, he never had to. After a while, though, he got over himself and did the mature thing – pretended none of it was happening and lived in his own little fantasy world.

In their defence, Rob and Mike had kept their relationship on the down-low. There were subtle touches here and there which left Chester wondering how he’d never noticed before. Maybe it was that he hadn’t wanted to notice it. And he thinks it’s amazing what things you can make yourself blind to if you want to enough.

***

Brad kicks a door and breaks his foot in a million places and he makes Chester push him up and down the hospital corridors in his wheelchair. They cancel a few dates and, in the mean time, Brad hobbles everywhere on his crutches and uses them to wreak havoc everywhere he goes.

It’s the fourth time that day that Brad has tripped Chester up, sticking his crutch in front of his foot as he takes a step and sends him staggering forward, chased by Brad’s laughter. Chester doesn’t even turn to curse or glare this time and keeps walking down the hallway to the hotel restaurant.

“Dude,” Brad says and follows slowly, “You’re so bitter and shit.”

Chester takes a seat at a booth to make it easier for Brad to sit down. He rests his chin on the heel of his hand and watches Brad slide his crutches under the table and flop onto the seat. “Yeah. I’m cool like that.”

Brad catches the waitress’ eye and smiles charmingly, “No really. You’ve become an emotionless vampire.”

“I’m a vampire?” This all sounds pretty dramatic but then again, it is Brad he’s dealing with here. “How the fuck am I a vampire?”

The guitarist nods and leans back in his chair, stretching his feet out in front of him “Or a robot. Or a journalist.”

“How am I emotionless?”

It’s only after he says it that he hears the tone in his voice. He sounds bored and tired and like he’d rather be anywhere but here. The trouble is – it’s true. He’s bored of this tour and he’s tired of being stuck in the hotel for days until Brad is fit enough to go on stage. Two days left until their first show post-door-kicking and Chester thinks he could die from anticipation.

***

If you ignore the fact that Brad hobbled around stage the entire time in pain, the show went really well. Afterwards Chester went around saying things like “That was fucking awesome.” and “We kicked ass out there” in an annoyingly optimistic voice.

Dave raises an eyebrow and mutters “Hello, Mr. Team Spirit. How are you?”

“The show was great. Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dave says cautiously, “But not that good. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he lies with a big grin “I’m just pleased to be performing again.” It’s half the truth anyway. He hopes he can keep his optimism this high for the meet and greet. They approach the table and Brad is already sitting there with Mike and Joe. Chester sinks into a seat on the end beside the guitarist and watches as Dave and Rob head to the other side.

“I need chocolate. Or a doughnut. Or a doughnut with chocolate in it. Or a doughnut with chocolate in it with chocolate sprinkles on and covered in chocolate sauce.”

“One day you’ll get fat and regret eating all this shit.” Says Chester, “I want a tall, cold glass of Fanta.”

Brad pulls a face but smiles broadly toward the end of the table when the fans start making their way over to them.

“Ah…sorry. Forgot you’re allergic.” For as long as they’ve been friends Brad has refused to drink Fanta because of his allergic reaction to it. Chester never really found out what reaction he had, but he’s sure it can’t be all that pleasant.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a lie anyway.” Brad says with a smile as he reaches out and takes a CD cover from a fan and signs his own face with a sharpie.

“It is?”

“Yeah. I don’t drink it because –” he pauses and leans in toward Joe with a grin as a fan takes a Polaroid photo “- Coca Cola made it for the Nazis during the war.”

Chester raises both of his eyebrows and glances at his friend “So you’re holding a grudge?”

“Not really. I mean...they made Coke for the American soldiers...I just find it funny what people will do for popularity.”

Looking down the table to where Mike and Rob sit side by side flirting with the girls and talking about their girlfriends who don’t exist, Chester has to agree – it is funny.

“I think I’m going to come out.”

Brad gives him a blank stare. “Of where?”

Chester rolls his eyes and signs a T-shirt. “You know,” he says, lowering his voice, “The closet.”

“Oh!” The guitarist says as if he just discovered the meaning of life then, lower, “Oh…shit….I don’t know, man. I mean…there’s a reason you homos aren’t out gaying freely.”

“Yeah.” Chester laughs, “Maybe not then.”

***

He dreams of Rob and the way he looks naked. The drummer is lying on his hotel bed, arms behind his head and his legs bent at the knee, his feet planted flat on the bed. Oh god what a view. The lights in the room are dim and they cast shadows over his body.

Chester walks further into the room and Rob sits up, beckoning for him to come to the bed. He crosses his arms in front of himself to pull off his shirt, drops his pants and boxers and climbs onto the mattress beside the younger man who pushes him down. He has rope and a gag and oh god Chester thinks this is the best dream he’s ever had. He lets Rob tie his hands to the headboard roughly and tie the gag around his head.

He’s already hard and, when he looks down, so is Rob, and within minutes the drummer has him writhing on the bed, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other around his throat cutting off his air.

Rob straddles his waist and guides Chester’s cock to his entrance, lowering himself slowly with a quiet hiss of pain and a low groan of pleasure. The singer’s eyes roll back in his head as Rob begins to ride him roughly, jerking himself off at the same time and moaning quietly.

It’s over too quickly. Chester comes first, emptying himself into Rob’s body a heartbeat before Rob comes over his own fist. The singer watches with heavy eyes as the younger man licks his hand clean before removing the gag and kissing him deeply. The taste is amazing and Chester wants more but Rob pushes him away, sitting up again and smiling lazily.

He flicks his wrist and something glints between his fingers. Chester doesn’t see it again but Rob brings a hand up to his forearm and a hot pain explodes there. A razor blade, he thinks and watches calmly as Rob moves his hand slowly, breaking the skin in long, deep cuts.

The drummer throws the blade behind him and reaches up to untie the bonds holding Chester’s hands to the headboard. He says something but Chester can’t hear him, feels as if he’d underwater. Lifting his arm up he frowns at the stains on his skin. Dark red blood pours from the wounds and he uses his other hand to wipe it away the best he can.

That’s when he sees what’s written there. The weight on his waist is gone and he gazes around the room for Rob but suddenly feels too tired to keep his eyes open anymore. He casts another look at his arm and the carved letters forming ‘Rob’ before he sinks into the mattress asleep.

He wakes up alone in his hotel room and stares around into the darkness. The sheets are soaked through with sweat and he curls his nose up when he realises, much to his disgust, that he’s creamed the bed. He looks at his arm and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that Rob didn’t carve his name into him and pulls back the sticky sheets, shuffling towards the shower.

So, other than the obvious fact that he needs some dick, what does his dream mean? Does Rob own him? Was it a sign that he’s completely and utterly owned by his crush?

He rinses away his thoughts with cheap hotel shower gel from the dispenser on the wall and wonders if he’s really lost it, this time.


	3. Coming out

They’re sitting in a radio studio, headphones pulled on so they can hear themselves and the eager callers and each other. Rob leans too his microphone and Chester can hear is breath through the headphones, soft and steady as they cut to a commercial break. There’s something comforting about the sound, like when a phone call drops to silence and the only way to know you aren’t alone is by listening carefully for the other person’s breathing.

The interview started off about the tour but ended up being about their personal lives the way they always do. It’s a subtle shift and, even though they swear they’ll never talk about their personal lives, journalists have a way of talking you out of your deepest secrets and you don’t even realise it.

The way Mike talks about Anna to a caller as if she’s still around makes Chester sick and, when it’s his turn and the sixteen year old from Florida asks him how his wife is he says he has no idea. They haven’t spoken for months and she’s gone back to New York to be the dancer she could have been if he hadn’t wanted to follow his dreams and forget about hers.

He says “She’s happy,” and then, “we were never in love anyway I was just putting off the inevitable – confessing that I’m gay.”

Down the microphone someone gasps and it has to be Rob, the way he’s sitting, gawping, eyes wide. It has to be Rob. Because Brad is in stitches, Joe and Dave are giggling and cheering and Mike is staring straight ahead at the interviewer, worrying his lip as if breaking his skin is going to rewind time and take away what he never wanted to happen.

***

Later there is a lot of Joe saying, “I didn’t know you were gay,” awkward silence and then “Although there was that time you came up to my booth onstage and humped me...”

And there is Mike saying “We can always pass it off as a joke...right?”

Mike is always so concerned about their image. Like Coke and the Nazis – anything for publicity. But Chester doesn’t need the infuriated glares from Mike and their manager to tell him he’s fucked up because he knows he has. He should have thought about the band, about their reputation, their fans. He should have known that this was a stupid idea he’d regret later.

Even Brad thinks he’s made a mistake and is agreeing with Mike saying “I’m sure the fans will assume he’s joking.”

“I don’t want them to think I was joking.”

Everybody turns to stare at him and Dave says “You know this could upset a lot of people.”

“Why?”

“Because being gay isn’t...expected,” Says Mike in the voice you’d use to tell your kids where babies come from.

“I know that you faggot.”

Mike blinks. And yeah, Chester supposes, that was the wrong insult to use considering the circumstances, but can’t bring himself to care enough to apologise. Instead of sorry he says “I don’t want you to tell them it was a joke. I want to do this.”

The idea of going back and saying it was all a joke is so comforting to Chester but he’s too proud to turn back now. He’s never been a flags and rainbows kind of guy but that doesn’t mean he is ashamed. He’s trapped in his own little day dream where everybody accepts his sexuality and other people are inspired to come out too. In his dream there are no hate crimes. There’s no Mike with his aggravated stare. There’s just Rob. There’s lots of naked Rob.

Chester becomes aware that he’s staring at Mike blankly and, quite possibly, drooling. He rolls his eyes and turns away, heading to the back of the bus to resume his dream where everything is okay and they all live happily ever after.

***

They’re in Bangkok. Chester knows they are, but he still asks Rob just to hear the word roll off his tongue. How could they not be in Bangkok? How could this humidity belong to anywhere else in the world? Thank god it’s their last few hours there, though, because Chester hates it.

Despite this, he still heads to the airport bar instead of the boarding gate. Spins some story about needing the bathroom and smiles suggestively at Brad who, in return, makes a lewd hand gesture that doesn’t go un-noticed by Mike who rolls his eyes. Ever since the radio interview Mike has been snappy with Chester but the singer has let it slide. After all; they did come back to find their tour bus had been vandalised with spray paint, the words ‘Dirty fucking fags’ glaring at them in big red letters.

They all turned to Chester sympathetically but he just beamed “At least they know who we are.”

He knows that next time could be worse, that the graffiti was only the start, but it’s too late to turn back now. He drops into a seat at the bar and orders a beer, followed closely by three more. After that he orders a cocktail of some description. It’s blue and it burns his mouth and throat and settles in a warm pool in his stomach. After that he buys a bottle of red wine from the duty-free and heads back to the bar to drink it.

In the mean time his flight is boarding. As he sits in a dark corner with his wine he listens to the announcements coming over the PA system like the voice of God. “Passenger announcement,” the voice says, “Could passenger Bennington for the flight to Viang Chan please proceed immediately to gate B. This flight has boarded and is awaiting departure.”

Chester wants to leave, wants to drag his sorry ass to the plane where they have first class seats and he can get even more drunk in a comfy seat with plenty of leg room but he can’t. He looks up at the departure screen and sure enough, there is his flight number flashing red and he thinks he should give two shits about being abandoned in a foreign country but the idea of being lost forever is way too appealing to him.

His hip vibrates in four sharp bursts and he’s too busy giggling to realise it isn’t his hip – it’s his cell phone. When he finally pulls it out of his pocket its Rob’s name flashing on the screen. He answers it and puts it to his ear.

“Chaz? Hello?”

Chester says nothing for a long while, just listening to Rob’s voice down the line and the way he sounds when he’s scared. In the background someone is cursing and someone is yelling but Rob keeps saying “Are you there?”

“Yeah,” Chester slurs, “I’m here.”

“Where are you? Everyone’s worried.”

“I’m in the bar. Rob?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates slightly, “I can’t stand up.”

There’s commotion in the background and eventually Rob says “You’re in the bar? They’ll send somebody to get you, okay? Hold tight.”

“I love you, Rob.”

The drummer is silent and all Chester can hear is Mike fussing in the background. After a while he says “I know you do, Chaz.” Then the line goes dead.

***

Their flight touches down in Montreal and Chester looks out of the window as they taxi along the run way. He can’t stand how they’re slowly getting closer to home and closer to what could potentially be disaster.

He remembers when they were leaving. He stood on the hot tarmac of the LAX airport runway and watched the Santa Ana sweep fire across the hills in the distance. He always loved fire season and the way everyone seemed to change, the way it was as if everybody was letting go and doing what they wanted. It was as if their souls were on fire.

Chester wishes he was back in LA and could use the season as his excuse for doing what he has done because the more he thinks about it the more pathetic his reasons sound. He thinks it’s about time he stopped living in a dream world. Maybe, he thinks, it’s time to pull his head out of the clouds.

Beside him Joe murmurs “This is hard for all of us, so don’t think you’re getting out of this one.”

Chester has no idea what he’s talking about until he looks up and, there on the runway, are members of the press in their smart suits and their pressed shirts. He turns to Joe with a remark on his tongue but the DJ is gone and is shuffling down the aisle to the front of the plane. Sliding out of his seat Chester swallows down his lunch which is in his throat, along with his heart. He pulls on his Ray-bans and follows the rest of the band down the aisle and staggers, dazed and jet lagged, down the metal stairs to the ground.

A busty blonde wearing a blouse that barely fits and pinstripe trousers so tight she mustn’t be able to feel her feet pushes her way to the front with a tape recorder hovering in front of her mouth. “Mr Bennington!” She trills and totters after him as he follows the others down the runway “Mr Bennington! I’m Ruth Casey from ‘AMP’.”

It takes all of his restraint not to tell Ruth Casey where to shove her tape recorder. He spares her a glance over his shoulder as he slinks down the tarmac.

“I was wondering,” She continues, “How did it feel to be a victim of hate crimes?” She doesn’t give him a chance to reply before hastening to add “Do you think your band should be judged based on your confession?”

Chester clears his throat and slows his pace a little, allowing Ruth to catch up with him. “You act as if some spray paint on our tour bus upset me. Kids go through worse stuff than I’m going through all the time. Just because we get more exposure than regular people doesn’t make it worse than every-day hate attacks. I think the press should stop blowing this out of proportion.”

“What about the band, Mr Bennington?”

“What about the band?” Chester asks and stares at her coldly from behind his Ray-bans, “Nothing has changed and nothing will.” He looks down his nose at her face and the way she looks as she stares at her reflection in his sunglasses.

Mike appears out of nowhere and claps a hand down on his shoulder and drags him away and mutters in his ear “You weren’t meant to say anything to them. PR will have a fucking coronary.”

“All I did was answer her questions,” Chester hisses and allows Mike to lead him into the main building of the airport where their security hum around the entrance to stop the press.

“Yeah well,” Mike says as they arrive at the queue for passport checks “I suppose it’s not like you could fuck this up any more.”

In front of them Rob turns to study his boyfriend with an unreadable expression and Chester mentally wills him to say something. He wants him to tell Mike to stop being a pretentious asshole. But instead he says “Maybe we should just try to stay below the radar, Chaz.”

“Yeah.” Chester mumbles. Of course. Because facing their fears and problems head on wouldn’t be very Linkin Parkesque now, would it?

Chester wants to slap the smug look off Mike’s face. He wants to tell Rob that it’s okay to do his own thing. He wonders if it gets cold in Mike’s shadow. It’s not like the young man has much option other than being in his shadow considering that Mike, with his inflated ego and love handles, pretty much blocks out the sun.

He takes a moment to smile to himself and indulge in his childish thoughts before he hands over his passport and follows the band to the tour bus.


	4. Plotting

Brad lies on his stomach, stretched out across Chester’s bed whilst the singer hangs out of the window smoking a cigarette. “Why didn’t we just get a smoking room, you tool?”

“Because they smell like stale smoke. I hate that.”

Brad frowns and stares at his reflection in the TV, “but you smoke…”

“Yeah,” says Chester and exhales a long stream of smoke out into the air, “but I don’t like the smell of other people’s smoke.”

Brad shrugs, rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, should know by now that very little of what Chester says or does makes any sense whatsoever.

“I’m splitting Mike and Rob up.”

“Oh?”

Chester flicks the cigarette butt out of the window and wanders over to his bed. He flops down next to Brad and picks at the material of the bed sheet. He hadn’t planned on saying anything, it was all just going to happen. But now that he’d told Brad he had to elaborate. He’s going to have to deal with the weight of his plans. “Ever met Orlando Bloom?”

Brad shakes his head. “Nope.” He reaches down to the floor and grabs the remote, turns on a TV programme about modern art and watches it in silence.

Chester, he grinds his teeth “Don’t you want to know why I’m asking?”

“Nope.” Brad says, eyes focused on a balding man in a crisp black suit talking in detail about a painting that looked like it could have been done but a three year old.

“Why not? Orlando is the shit.”

“I hate actors. I mean...there isn’t a more self serving thing you could do in the world than become an actor.”

Chester wants to say something about Brad lying on a five star hotel bed, watching TV and doing nothing that benefits anybody else. He wants to mention how they’re all self serving and wants to say something about how all human beings are plastic, selfish, predictable people but. It’d be totally wasted on Brad.

The guitarist sighs. “Orlando Bloom.” He says, trying the name out and running his tongue along his teeth. “Isn’t there a book with that name written by an author called…something that sounds like vagina?”

“You mean Virginia and yes, there is. For someone watching an art gallery show you’d think you knew more about culture.”

“Fuck culture.” Brad mutters and rolls onto his back. “Fuck people who get erections over red squares painted on a canvas. The only thing worth going to a art museum for is the girls on a daytrip with the college art department. Why are you asking about Orlando?”

“Everybody loves Orlando,” he says vaguely and stares into Brad’s eyes. Brad has amazing eyes. Not as amazing as Rob’s. But Chester’s pretty biased in that respect.

“I like that other one. The girl elf.”

“Liv Tyler.”

Brad shifts his hips and laces his hands together, resting his head on them, whispers “Yeah. Her.”

For a long time Chester was sure he was the only one who spent every waking second thinking and talking about sex. Then he met Brad and those fears were erased. He wants to keep talking about Liv Tyler and maybe if he distracts Brad some more he won’t have to talk. The guitarist shifts and looks down the bed to where Chester sits against the headboard, raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“I think Rob should meet Orlando.”

Brad stares blankly. “You know. If it isn’t Mike, Rob won’t put his dick in it.” He sits up suddenly and grins “Ooh! Why don’t you get full reconstructive surgery? Then Rob wouldn’t know which was which and you’d get laid!”

Chester hopes Brad is joking and says nothing, turns to stare out of the window and out across the skyscraper dotted horizon of New York. This used to always be his favourite state when they first started touring. Years on; the memory doesn’t quite match up.

Probably, nothing has changed in New York since he was younger. Probably, the only thing that has changes is him and, right now, he hates the way he is. Jealous. Angry. Sad.

“Forget it.” He says, “I can’t compete with Mike what chance do I have competing with Orlando Bloom?”

“I bet he has a tiny dick.”

“Mike or Orlando?”

“Orlando,” Brad says, as if it was obvious. “Mike’s dick is pretty awesome.”

Ah yes. They went to high school together. Turns out Brad was quite the little sex maniac back in the day. This hardly comes as a surprise. Chester says “I can’t compete with a new person. Mike and Rob…they’re comfortable. If Rob started humping somebody else it’d be even harder to get a look in.” He tears his gaze away from the window and watches the presenter on the TV lead the camera crew through a gallery with art only pretentious college students and millionaires are interested in.

“Yeah I know what you mean. Like, when you first start dating everything is tingly and new and shiny.” Brad pushes himself up and sits Indian style next to Chester, their knees touching. “Please don’t split them up.”

Chester drops his head to rest on Brad’s shoulder, murmurs “Why not?”

“Because for all you want or need or jerk off over Rob…Mike is still your friend,” he says, “and if Rob left, it’d kill him.”

Chester stares at the TV and thinks about how, maybe, humans are selfish and predictable. But who was he to judge? Since he was all of those things too.

***

Dave comes up to him after the show the next day saying “I just got the number of the perfect guy for you to go on a date with.”

Chester blinks, “I hate dates. As soon as you meet someone you know the reason you’ll leave them.”

Dave sighs but says nothing, crumples up the paper in his hand and throws it in the trash.

***

Chester is pretty sure that his problems with Rob are the only thing going on in the world. Brad says he wears ‘Rob blinkers’ and repeatedly slaps him around the head for the dirty looks he throws Mike’s way.

The six of them sit in the café of a truck stop, the kind of place you only stop when your tour bus is out of gas and you have to take a leak and need to eat something other than dry crackers or tinned hotdogs.

There’s a muted fifty dollar TV on a cheap metal stand nailed to the wall and the bad picture shows the news and all the things Chester feels like he’s been missing out on recently. Sometimes he thinks being on tour is like being on a different planet and he’d feel bad for being so ignorant if he wasn’t so god damn tired.

He’s staring at the TV with a blank stare, his hands hugging his lukewarm coffee when the news cuts to pictures of American troops preparing to fly to Iraq. The weight of the silence around them is almost too much to take and someone clears their throat awkwardly.

From the corner of the booth Rob pipes up, his voice full of hope “Maybe everything will be okay and there won’t be a war.”

Chester feels like he should say something, but some things need no elaboration.

***

He craves something more than anything. But he can’t put his finger on it.

***

People start waiting for them at venues shouting abuse and waving banners about heterosexuality and peddling bullshit from the bible. Joe makes some awkward joke about the creation of man and Adam and Steve but Chester is too busy staring out of the window darkly.

Mike sits down beside him and follows his eye-line to the crowd of people outside the backdoors of the venue. “You okay?”

It’s a stupid question and Chester doesn’t answer, simply closes his eyes and sighs instead.

“You know they’re just jealous, right?”

Chester laughs bitterly but coughs “Sorry. I know this isn’t your fault.”

“We’re all really worried about you,” Mike murmurs, turning to study Chester’s face, “Rob’s really worried...really worried.”

It’s all very innocent; Mike has no idea how much he’s putting him on a guilt trip. But he is. And Chester pales slightly when he rethinks his conversation with Brad about breaking him and Rob up. “He’s too busy worrying to love you properly.”

Mike ducks his head and wrings his hands nervously.

“God,” Chester breathes, “I never wanted that to happen. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

No, it’s not. “I’ve been so fucking selfish. I mean…the only reason I’m here is because you took a chance on me back when you guys were Xero. This isn’t your fault.”

He thinks this must be an epiphany. This must be the metaphorical clouds parting and the metaphorical sun shining through. If it wasn’t for Mike he’d be back in good old Phoenix with debts and bills and worries and amphetamines. And so what if it’s Mike who Rob chose? Who was he to kick up a fuss?

He never was one for giving in, he was never one for turning around and leaving quietly, but he’s just stopped caring. He could be as stubborn and unwilling to let go as possible but that won’t make Rob love him.

This should be a lot harder to take than it is. This should hurt. But Chester bought a bottle of Southern Comfort from the last service station they stopped at and it’s busy warming the pit of his stomach in the way only bourbon can.

“Chaz,” Mike says, pauses and presses a hand to his shoulder, “are you okay? I mean...are you-”

He can’t finish because the security guards for the venue have separated the crowds enough for the band to walk through and Chester is already getting up, grabbing his bag and heading off the bus. As he passes down the aisle between the angry crowds he swallows down any of the thousands of comments he wants to spit at them and focuses on not crying, instead.

Never was able to handle his alcohol well, isn’t sure why he thought today would be any easier.

 

***

Chester sits in the green room alone. The door is locked and, as silly as he feels, he cries. He cups his head in his hands and cries. Not just for himself (mainly, though) but for everything and everyone in the world, too.

He cries for everybody everywhere because he was finally starting to realise that there was no balance to life, no karma.

He cries. Because he isn’t sure what else to do, anymore.


	5. Ticket to heaven

He can’t sleep so he slides out of bed, grabs his jeans and slides his feet into his shoes. He wants to go sit on the roof but he knows that there are probably journalists hanging around somewhere with their photographers just waiting for him to do something stupid.

Opts for the pool instead, sits on the bleachers to the side and stares at the moon reflected on the still surface of the water. He finally realises what he’s been craving for weeks.

Silence. The calm emptiness of the night and the blissful feeling of being the only person awake. A breeze disturbs the surface of the pool, sending ripples in all directions. It is soothing to watch; mesmerising and comforting.

The sound of the door to the pool area opening penetrates the silence and Chester wonders if there’s anywhere in the world where people are willing to leave him alone. He doesn’t turn to see who it is, doesn’t acknowledge their presence nor does he care much. It could be a cold blooded murderer here to axe him to death and rape his corpse. He couldn’t care less – at least it’d be quiet once he was dead.

“Hey.” It’s Brad and his voice is whisper-soft. He takes a seat beside Chester on the bleachers and they don’t look at each other. “I woke up. You weren’t there.”

There’s something about Brad’s innocence that make Chester smile, “I’m sorry. I needed...” to get away from myself, “to think. About stuff.”

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear. And I know you’re sad. But...I think it’s time you moved on.”

Brad doesn’t need to say it because the silence does it for him. Rob didn’t choose him and he never will. A few days ago Chester had accepted all of this, but then Rob looped an arm around his waist as they huddled together pre-show and the burning touch of his hand through Chester’s shirt was enough to put him right back where he started.

He says, I know, then tilts his head to look at the star dappled sky. Brad doesn’t say anything else, just sits beside him quietly. Maybe it wasn’t the silence Chester had been craving. Maybe he just wanted someone to notice how hurt he was. “Thank you.”

Brad turns to him and half smiles, “You’re welcome.”

***

Someone once told him that keeping a journal makes things easier. Probably, it was his mother. She told him that you can write how you feel in your journal; totally let go. This was her way of telling him to stop whining. Some people have issues with saying things straight out to your face.

He sits at the front of the bus with a notepad and a pen and a bottle of Evian. He knows exactly what he wants to say but he can’t. He isn’t sure if this is something he can put into words. All he knows is he’s pretty lost and can’t remember the last time someone had such a profound effect on him.

He scribbles a few words on the paper and promptly crosses most of them out, gets up and disappears to the back of the bus. Maybe Halo will calm him down. Nothing like total annihilation of a race after a hard day of...whatever.

He passes Rob on his way down the bunk aisle and the drummer smiles at him and, for the first time, he smiles back.

Rob flops down at the table and stares at Chester’s notepad. Stares at his words scarred with angry black lines and the only legible sentence.

‘Sometimes I write things that I’m just not...I just can’t...’

***

Chester is high and watching some soppy romantic movie about a hapless young man who falls in love with a beautiful business woman and they get married. He sighs dreamily and says “Be still my heart.”

Brad grimaces, “Be still my stomach. Do we have to watch this shit?”

“It’s this or Superman again.”

“I’m sure they have other movies that just those two.”

“I like Superman!”

Brad groans and rolls his eyes, slides off the bed and moves to the mini fridge. He grabs a can of Pringles and stares at Chester who is propped up against a mound of pillows and surrounded by used tissues. “You’re a fucking mess, dude.”

It’s the truth. There is no glamour to snorting coke and getting drunk in your hotel room, contrary to popular belief. Chester rolls his eyes and starts rolling another joint. “You’re not my mom.”

“No,” snaps Brad, “but I’m your only fucking friend right now because nobody else wants to look after you.”

There’s a heady silence. The kind that happens when you’ve stepped in it. Right in it. And there’s no turning back. Both Brad and Chester know that there’s no turning back from this particular bomb shell.

“Look after me?”

Brad gets up and sits on the edge of the bed, reaches out only to have Chester shrink away. “Chaz...I didn’t...”

“No. It’s okay.” He murmurs and gets up, dumping the half rolled joint on the bed and grabbing his shoes. “I’m going out. Is it cold? Should I take my coat? For the cold?”

By now, Brad knows not to bother arguing with Chester – when he has his mind set on something he’s too stubborn to turn away from it. That, and he knows he’s said too much to make Chester feel any better now.

“Yeah,” he says quietly and opens the closet, grabs the coat and holds it out for him, “you should wear your coat.”

Chester takes it and looks up. Their eyes meet and...Chester always had trouble hiding how he felt. He’s pretty sure that how shitty he feels is painted clearly on his face, so he turns away and leaves the room, pulling on his jacket as he hurries down the hallway to the elevator.

***

He walks away from the hotel, heads in the direction of the edge of town. He wants to be where nobody is. He wants to be where nobody can find him. He plucks his cell out of his pocket and holds to power button until the screen goes black and he drops it back into his coat.

Brad’s words hurt more than he had thought they would. He knew there’d come a point where his friends would say they’d had enough of him but he didn’t think they’d say it behind his back. He doesn’t even blame Brad, knows it isn’t the guitarist’s fault that he’s gone down hill.

Heading away from the lit windows of the stores and the bright lights of the city, Chester finds himself wandering through streets with houses set back from the pavement, large, dark gardens with trees separating them from the curious eyes of passers by.

He can’t think. The dull wet thump of his own footsteps on the pavement drown out his thoughts. And in the background, the echo behind him. Footsteps following him. Probably Brad. Or some halfwit reporter who just can’t wait for the next scoop. Or it could be a worker, walking home from their job in the centre of town, on their way home to their kids and their family and all those other things Chester won’t ever have.

He’s too busy feeling sorry for himself to hear the footsteps behind him pick up their pace, doesn’t notice someone hurry up the path from a house beside him. All he feels is a sharp stabbing pain that spread like fire up and down his back and the warmth of something soaking through his shirt. He reaches behind himself and touches a hand to whatever is stuck in his back and brings his fingers up to his face.

In the sickly yellow glow of the street lamp, he thinks, his blood looks black. And he wishes more than anything he’d asked Brad to walk with him.

***

He remembers something a Priest told him when he was a little boy, about Heaven and Hell. The Priest said that Hell isn’t necessarily flames and devils with horns – Hell differs from person to person. Same goes for Heaven.

As he is rushed along a sterile corridor, tube lighting racing by overhead, his thoughts drowned out by voices calling to one-another and asking “Chester? Can you hear me?” As he swims in and out of consciousness he’s pretty sure that this place is his Hell.

Because. He’s pretty sure Heaven would be the roar of the crowd in his ears, his microphone hot and heavy in his fist and then there’d be Rob on his knees, looking up at Chester with dark eyes full of lust.


	6. Taking Charge

When he wakes up for the first time it hurts. His back aches the way it did when he got his tattoos – that dull throbbing that doesn’t ease no matter what you do. There’s a nurse standing over him, shining a light in his eyes and taking his blood pressure. He wants to ask what’s going on but his mouth his dry and his throat hurts.

He wants to know what happened, who found him and why he’s alive. He knows he should be grateful. This should be one of those thought altering moments. He feels as though he should be willing to push aside all of his selfish thoughts and start up a charity or something.

Instead, he lies completely still and lets the nurse runs her test as he wallows in his own self pity.

***

The next time he wakes up Brad is by his bedside.

“Dude! I’m so glad you’re awake,” he says, picking a pistachio nut from the bowl on the bedside table and snapping it in half, “They were going to make me call your parents. Like I want to be the one responsible for telling them how dead you were being.”

Ah Brad. Bradford, Bradford, Bradford. “I wasn’t dead,” Chester croaks and rolls his eyes.

Brad throws the nut up in the air, catches it in his mouth “Yes you were. For two minutes you were clinically dead or whatever.”

“I need a smoke.”

“You’re not allowed.” Brad says around a handful of nuts he just stuffed in his mouth, “stabbed in a lung and what-not.”

It’s all very surreal. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life. Hate crimes are always so far away, attempted murders happen in different cities. Different times. “What happened?”

“Someone found you lying in their driveway, bleeding all over the place. They called the hospital. The hospital called Bob. Bob rushed us all down here. The end.” He says, then “Want a nut?”

Chester shakes his head and stares at the ceiling of the room. The cliché, bleached white décor that all hospitals have. “I was dreaming about fudge,” he says softly, “and Superman.”

“Fucking Superman.”

“He saved me. I’m sure I killed Lois Lane. I don’t really remember.”

They fall into silence for a long moment, Brad breaking open pistachio after pistachio and not eating them. Chester wants to say something but he feels like everything has already been said a thousand times before. He’s never been in this situation before – he has no idea how to act.”

After a long moment Brad mumbles, “You know... I thought I’d never see you again. For a long time, whilst you were in surgery, the rest of them were holding it together except me and I felt really dumb.” He clears his throat awkwardly and runs a hand through his hair, “Then I went to the bathroom and Rob was in there, crying. He looked so fucking heart broken.”

“Really?”

“Jesus, Chester. You’re so fucking selfish!” Brad snaps, raising his voice and getting to his feet. “You would have fucking left us all behind because you’re sad. Well fuck you very much, Mr I-care-only-about-myself-and-Rob. You’ve got your head so far up his ass you can’t see how much you’re hurting us! If you had died-”

“Brad-”

“-how do you think I would have coped?! You’re my friend and I love you but-”

“Brad, please I-”

“- I can’t take another scare like that. I can’t just-”

“Brad!”

“What?”

Chester closes his eyes for a moment and breathes slowly through his nose. He’s exhausted but he knows he owes Brad an apology. Rolling his head carefully he fixes his eyes on Brad’s, “I’m sorry. I just needed to be alone.”

“They’re not fed up with you, Ches’.” Says Brad, sitting back down and fidgeting, “You think we don’t see how sad you are? How messed up things are getting?”

“I’m fine.”

“No,” says Brad, “You’re a liar. And we’re getting you help.”

***

Two hours of therapy twice a week. That is his friend’s idea of help. More and more he is realising that people like to help from a distance – not many people are willing to get their hands dirty. That would hurt but he’s pumped full of so many painkillers that every part of him is numb.

It’s a shame, he thinks, because if things were the other way around he’d be more than willing to dive in head first to help out but he guesses that not everybody in the world is like him.

Since the stabbing he’s seen Rob once and Brad every single day. Mike, Joe and Dave have dropped by during visiting hours when they can. They say they’re busy. Or that’s what they’re telling Brad, anyway. That lie would be more believable if they weren’t all on vacation…

Again, this would hurt if he wasn’t up to the eyeballs in drugs. He’s never been so happy to be hospitalised.

***

“How are you feeling today, Chester?”

Chester stops counting the cars in the parking lot and turns his eyes to the aging man in the big leather chair behind the big polished desk with the big ugly painting hung behind and says “Hungry. You?”

“You know, Chester,” says Doctor Savage calmly, “these sessions would be a lot more constructive if you’d share yourself.”

The way prostitutes share themselves? Chester smirks to himself. “I don’t have anything to share. There’s no big secret buried in my soul.”

Before he could get out of bed, Doctor Savage came to his hospital room and they had their sessions there. The first thing he asked about was his childhood and Chester told him to where to shove his advice. Since then they’ve progressed slightly – Chester finally swallowed his pride and told the doctor about the situation between him and Rob, about the drinking and the drugs.

“How about you tell me more about you and Rob, Chester?”

Saying his name over and over doesn’t make therapy easier. “How about I don’t?”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s nothing more to say. I like him a lot more than he likes me and his boyfriend doesn’t appreciate my feelings.” Chester says and shrugs, ignores the pain that throbs dully in his back at the movement.

Part of him wants this whole therapy, sharing-his-feelings shit to work out for the best. He wants to go back to being happy and not using drugs and alcohol as if he’s back in Arizona with nothing to live for.

Another part of him, the part that is always miserable and never satisfied, doesn’t want this to work. He wants to continue to live like a rock star. He wants the band to be completely wrong about this being the solution to all of his problems.

What he wants most of all, though, is to get over Rob. Sitting here, staring at the sun setting over the parking lot, he wants to not be in love. Because it hurts. And because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve this at all.

***

After a few weeks of being watched over carefully in hospital, Chester is allowed to go home with the promise that he will continue to visit Doctor Savage once a week. A hundred dollars a session. Chester can’t think of a bigger waste of money.

***

One day something clicks.

Chester stops going to therapy. Stops going, period. He stops eating until he reaches the point of almost passing out and then he has something microwavable. He feels like he has regressed back to bachelorhood – he feels like he’s just moved out and has no job, no responsibilities.

Brad comes over every day and cooks for him then eats the meal for him when it becomes apparent that Chester isn’t about to make the effort. One day he says “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

And Chester says “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You don’t talk to me any more. I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

There really isn’t, he’s just beyond fed up. More and more he’s blaming himself when Brad tells him how Rob is feeling. Every time he says “Rob is really worried,” or “Rob’s having a hard time with Mike,” he takes it out on himself. Mentally, that is. Not in a physical self-harm kind of way – never was big on pain. Besides, there are other ways to punish yourself without slashing your arms open or punching walls.

“I don’t know what to say, Brad.”

“Tell me what’s wrong!”

And Chester says “No.”

So Brad, he gets up and goes to leave.

“Where’s the fire?” Chester snaps, worried. Wants to be alone so badly, but wants Brad to stay more than anything.

“In my pants.” Brad mutters in reply, his hand on the door handle.

“That’s probably syphilis.”

Brad rolls his eyes, says “See you,” pulls down the handle, steps out of the house and slams the door behind him.

And Chester, he is completely alone.

***

Brad caves eventually and barges into Chester’s house with his arms full of boxes and bags .Chester looks up from where he is lying on the sofa in his boxers and goes “What?”

“Get up. Get dressed. Get your stuff. Get in the car.”


	7. Your face is not an organ

And so Chester moves in with Brad. Which earns several gay jokes from Dave who has some nerve considering he’s as gay as a bag of dildos.

Chester has a feeling this is all part of Mike’s master plan to get the band going again since they are currently on an indefinite break, but Brad insists it had nothing to do with the emcee. Neither would be surprising. It’s just like Mike to care only about the band, but it’s also like him to not give a shit at all.

They’re sitting on Brad’s couch, Brad wearing a shirt and his boxers, Chester wearing only his boxers and one sock. Saturdays always sucked and today is no different. Drawing his knees up to sit Indian style he says “I might go solo.”

Brad glances at him, “That’s kind of dumb.” He takes a breath to say more but the phone rings and he jumps up to answer it.

This is all a lot less sudden than it seems. Chester has been considering a solo career for a while now but knew that the minute he opened his mouth to say something it would become final. It’d become definite.

In the background Brad goes “Oh! Hey, mom.”

Chester changes channels to a black and white movie, then to a quiz show, then to the news, then to a programme about sex. The woman on-screen lies spread eagle on a black silk covered bed as a machine with a dildo attached to one end fucks her violently.

In the background Brad shuffles out of the room saying “No, mom, it’s some medical drama and someone is giving birth.”

This should all be a lot more amusing than Chester finds it so he changes channels, changes channels, changes channels and eventually Brad wanders back into the room with his hands on his hips. “That wasn’t funny.”

Chester shrugs.

“That was my mom, dude. She’s my mother. And she’s religious.”

“So?” Chester says and turns to face him, “You mean religious people don’t have sex?”

Brad pulls a face “Not my mom. My mom and dad never had sex. That’s. Ew. No.”

“I bet they went at it all night long.”

“No! She fell! Into a vat of sperm!”

Ah Bradford. Bradford, Bradford, Bradford. Chester bursts out laughing. “She what?”

Brad squirms and blushes, “Shut up.”

He goes to walk away but Chester reaches out, grabs his wrist and tugs him back down onto the sofa beside him in front of the TV showing some shopping channel. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave it alone.”

“Doesn’t thinking of your parents having sex repulse you?”

Chester shakes his head, “They really didn’t. My,” he makes quote marks with his fingers, “’mother’ turned out just to be some woman my dad decided he would pretend he was married to. So…it’s not really my parents.”

Brad stares at the woman on TV with bleached teeth and bad skin holding up a wrist watch and nods silently. Well done Chester, putting the dampers on things again.

“I wish I had something to say.”

Chester mutes the TV saying, “Tell me a story.”

Brad shifts in his seat and says nothing for a long while. Then he murmurs, “When we were in high school, Mike and me, we were both pretty popular. Mike made friends so easily. Like, he could just go up to anyone in the world and they’d love him. Which was really great, you know? But it always left me wondering if he didn’t have somewhere better to be than with me. ‘Cause I was all awkward and like...not Mike.”

He laughs and stares at his lap “When we went off to different colleges I didn’t make friends for a long time ‘cause I figured as long as I only had Mike he wouldn’t let me go. As long as I didn’t make friends, he wouldn’t either and we’d all live happily ever after.”

Chester watches Brad’s expression carefully. He looked sad, and it wasn’t an emotion he was used to seeing.

“I was terrified for the longest time that our paths would like, separate and never cross again.”

And Chester thinks that goes for just about everybody he’s ever met.

***

Brad walks downstairs one morning and Chester hasn't moved from the couch.

"Why do you have a face like a bag of smashed crabs?"

Chester looks up and says "That is confusing on so many levels."

Brad shuffles over and perches on his lap "Would a kiss cheer you up?"

Mmm Chester thinks...a kiss from Ro- before he can blink Brad's lips are on his, the guitarists tongue forcing its way into his mouth. This has to be the messiest kiss he's ever been on the receiving end of but nonetheless he wraps his arms around the man in his lap.

Brad pulls away and grins down at Chester cheekily and Chester says "That was the worst kiss ever."

Brad laughs shocked and slaps the singer’s arm. "You weren't so great yourself!"

Chester grins. It's been a while since he felt this good. "What's happening with the band?" he asks.

Brad shrugs "That's up to you."

And Chester says "I want to tour again, I want to be a band again."

And Brad laughs, doesn’t mention Chester’s idea of going solo, says "at last,” then drags Chester up off the couch "Let's call the guys.”

***

They’re on the road again. This is after several gruelling checkups from Chester’s doctor and a handful of physio tests to make sure he was fit enough to tour again. He was, but if he moved in just the wrong way the scarring wound throbbed and sent slivers of pain up and down his spine. So, naturally, the doctors made him move like this as much as possible.

Then came the interviews. Press conferences where Bob insisted Chester act as if being stabbed hadn’t been such a big deal and begged for forgiveness from the fans for cancelling the tour half way through the states.

Yeah. Sorry that some douche bags jumped me and stabbed me in the back. My bad.

Little to nothing changes other than Mike hangs around him more than ever before. Chester figures Brad said something for him, urged him not to act like he’s better than everyone else.

Rob, Mike and Chester sit in the backroom watching Beauty and The Beast on the widescreen TV. It was the sexiest TV Chester had ever seen so he didn’t mind sitting next to Rob with his hand laced with Mike’s discreetly. He would be pissed if they started making out but this creeping around and waiting until his back is turned is worse than being forced to watch them fuck.

Joe and Dave join them eventually, sitting on the floor at their feet. Great, Chester thinks, Dave will start to cry and drown out the end of the movie. He wants to get up and leave but there’s a weight in his lap.

Its name is Brad. “Can I help you?”

Brad nods but says nothing, leans in and kisses him hard.

Chester sits stunned at first but eventually melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Brad’s thin waist. He can feel everybody’s eyes on them and it feels amazing.

Brad breaks away after a moment and looks hopeful, “Any better?”

“Less tongue that time, you’re getting there.”

Brad grins proudly and jumps up, leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

Someone clears their throat and Chester looks around at the four pairs of eyes, wide and fixed on him. Joe says “What the fuck was that?”

And Chester says “Sssh! I’m trying to watch the movie.”

***

He’s sitting beside Joe and Brad on the plane with the other three in front of them. At least he doesn’t have to sit next to Rob. He isn’t sure how he would deal with that right now. He’s feeling a lot better but he thinks close proximity might be a bit much.

Mike, who is beside Rob, in front of Joe, adjusts his seat and slams it back into Joe’s face.

“Ow! Fuck! Dude!”

Mike laughs, “Sorry, were you leaning forward?”

“I was playing with my tray.”

Chester slumps in his seat. Who the fuck decided they’d fly coach anyway? Jesus. He’s tired. The show last night drained him of energy and they had to get straight back onto the bus to drive to the airport. He shimmies, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. But then Mike slams his seat back again.

Joe laughs loudly, “Dude. You’re doing major damage to my face. And my knees.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Just warn me next time. Just tell me which organs you’re going to smash.”

“Your face isn’t an organ.” Mumbles Chester, tiredly.

“My face is an organ! It’s alive!”

This is so stupid. Chester gets up, shuffling down the aisle to the bathroom. He sits on the closed lid of the toilet and locks the door. Turns out when you’re sad and tired, you can fall asleep anywhere.


	8. Misunderstandings and pulsating showerheads

Brad shares a room with Dave one day and doesn’t explain why. This is a day after Chester sees him and Mike sitting backstage with their heads bent close together. Just talking, the way they used to before Chester became Brad’s shadow. He knows he’s doing it, knows he’s clinging onto Brad too tight but he can’t bring himself to let go.

Either way, Brad and Mike are so deep in conversation they don’t see him standing off to the side, watching. Brad lifts his head, looks pale, gets up and stammers some excuse. He disappears in the other direction, head bent, watching his feet as he walks.

Then, that night, Joe drags his bags into Chester’s room. Shrugs, “Room switch. Something about Brad and Phi wanting to work together on some chords or some such lie. Did you guys have a domestic?”

“He’s not my wife, you moron.” Chester snaps.

Joe starts digging through his bag for a clean shirt, “So did you?”

“No.”

They hadn’t. Things had been fine. Or. Maybe they hadn’t. “I need to talk to Mike.”

***

Their room door is ajar and someone’s bags are dumped in the entry. He still knocks lightly on the door, feels like he should be polite. Still barges in anyway. He’s so pissed off at Mike. What the hell did he say to Brad?

He steps into the room and raises his eyebrows, blushes furiously and turns away stuttering “I...um...I need to talk to y-you Mike.”

He squeezes his eyes shut but the image is burned into his brain. Rob lay sprawled out on the bed with Mike sitting beside him. They’re both shirtless and Mike has his hand down the front of Rob’s open jeans. It’s not really such a bad thing to walk in on, as far as inconvenient things to walk in on go – he could have walked in on Rob sucking Mike’s dick which he’s pretty sure would have scarred him for life.

He’s surprised how much it hurts. Of course he walked in on them doing…that. Of course. Because that’s just his fucking luck, isn’t it?

The pair behind him scramble around to get dressed and the rustle of their clothing is the only thing breaking the uncomfortable silence. After a long moment a hand falls onto his shoulder and Mike murmurs “Let’s take a walk.”

***

“Can’t you close the door? Didn’t you think?”

“Don’t blame this on me, okay? I’m sorry you had to see that but it’s really not my fault.”

No. It isn’t. But sometimes it’s nice to have someone to blame. Chester thinks there’ll be a day when he doesn’t use Mike as his personal scapegoat. Maybe. But right now he has a reason to be mad, “Brad won’t share a room with me.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t fucking ‘oh’ me, Shinoda. You did something!”

Mike keeps walking into the hotel bar and drops into a booth. “Please keep it down. Linkin Park don’t swear.”

Chester sits down opposite him and hisses “Blow me.”

“I just asked Brad if you guys were…doing it.”

“Why?! No! We’re not! Why?!” Ah coherency, you’re such a blessing. “So now he thinks...that I think...that we’re...”

It makes sense. Mike’s planted a seed in Brad’s mind now. Or something. Whatever. “He thinks I want to fuck him?”

Mike shrugs. “He didn’t say. I didn’t say. He just ran off.” He sighs and draws circles on the table with his index finger. “I was just curious. I asked and he looked horrified, asked if you’d mentioned it. Then he said it didn’t matter and ran off. I didn’t know he wouldn’t share a room with you.”

He just keeps fucking everything up. “I just keep fucking everything up.”

“Why are you sitting here bitching to me? Go talk to him.”

“You just want to get your rocks off.”

Mike blushes and looks away quickly. “You could have knocked.”

“I did. You could have closed the door.” There’s something comforting about making a joke about it. If he keeps everything light and just above the surface then it won’t drag him down again.

Mike brushes him off, says “Go talk to Brad,” and gets up, shuffling away awkwardly. Chester knows the feeling – it’s pretty difficult to walk with a hard on.

He wants more than anything to talk to Brad, to clear things up. But. The mental image of Rob on the bed, his eyes half lidded in pleasure and his mouth open, his hands clenched around the sheets. He can’t get that image from his head so Brad can wait. He needs to spend some quality time with himself first.

***

After a much needed shower, Chester heads across the hallway to the room Brad is sharing with Dave. He knocks on the door and folds his arms over his chest. When the guitarist’s face appears in the doorway he snaps “You’re breaking up with me, then?”

It pisses him off to no end that straight people automatically assume gay people love them. Not that Brad isn’t good looking or anything. But he should be so lucky. With that in mind, Chester thinks he should make this all as embarrassing and painful for Brad as he can. He sniffs, “I had to hear from Mike. You could have grown some stones and told me to my face. Jesus.”

Brad looks shocked, “I-I’m not...we weren’t e-ever…”

Chester waves a hand and cuts him off saying, “No it’s fine. Mike told me all about it. Told me you couldn’t bare to do it but that you had to.”

“What?”

“Well I just came for what you promised me.”

“Huh?”

Chester pulls a face, as if Brad’s an idiot. “You know...the break-up sex you told Mike about.”

Now the guitarist looks scared and he backs away into the room with Chester following him. Dave looks up from where he’s sitting on the bed, hotel phone tucked under his ear saying “Hold on, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber are here.”

Chester pushes Brad up against the wall and grabs his leg at the knee, hitches it up against his hip and presses forward saying “So let’s get to it.”

“What are you doing?” Brad squeaks.

There’s only a certain amount of time someone can keep a straight face, especially someone like Chaz who shows his emotions so blatantly. He bursts out laughing and steps back, watching Brad slump back against the wall. “You’re so fucking vane did you know that?”

“Huh?”

In the background, on the phone, Dave goes, “Nah they’re humping.”

“You thought I was in love with you? Fucking hell.”

“Oh,” Brad murmurs, ashamed, “Yeah sorry about that. Just...Mike said…”

“Mike’s too absorbed with Rob to see what’s right in front of him.” Chester snorts, sitting on the end of Dave’s bed.

“Pot. Kettle. Black.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. But I really thought you knew me better than that.” He says, studying Brad’s expression. He looks guilty, and Chester is pretty sure he’s put him through enough now. Time to move on. “I walked in on them heavy petting.”

“Mike and Rob?” Brad asks, looks relieved that they’ve changed subject.

“Yeah. But that’s okay. It’s time I moved on, don’t you think?”

Brad does think but this time he says nothing. Doesn’t push, doesn’t agree, just grabs Chester’s arms and pulls him into a hug.

***

Brad walks in on Chester in the shower, closing the toilet lid and sitting on it. “Hoobastank are joining us on tour,” he says.

Chester stands frozen under the water, aware of the translucent sheet separating them. He loves hotels – a detachable, pulsating shower head is the best gift anybody could ever give him in the morning. But now Brad is sitting on the toilet and the happy has gone away. “Do you mind?”

“Were you jacking off?”

“No...” Not yet, anyway.

“Then no. I don’t mind. Anyway. Hoobastank!”

He’s way too excited about a change of support bands. But Chester is way too horny to care. “I’m trying to shower, Brad. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Well you know,” he says as he loads his pockets with miniature soaps and shampoos from the shelf above the sink, “They all gargle mayonnaise same as you.”

Chester pulls a face “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Dude. You’re the one who does it, not me. Anyway, as I was saying. They all gargle mayonnaise and-”

“Could you stop with the…metaphors? Please?”

“Would you let me finish?”

Looking up at the shower head longingly Chester sighs, “Yeah, yeah get on with it.”

“So they’re all gay. And you know…hot. I guess. I think? Are they hot?”

“Brad!”

“But I just figured...you know…”

He needs to stop taking everything out on his friends. He knows he does. He knows that they’re all just trying to help. Especially Brad. He really wants Chester to be happy and maybe it’s about time that Chester stopped taking him for granted. “You want to hook me up with Hoobastank?”

“Not all of them. Unless gangbangs are your thing.” Brad sniggers.

“This is all very...nice of you. But I’m not interested.”

Brad sighs, irritated. “You have to move on.”

“I am! But Hoobastank are our friends and I don’t think I could ever...”

“Fine.” Brad snaps, getting up off the toilet and heading back into the main room, slamming the door behind him on his way out. Chester sighs softly. He knows everybody is just trying but he really isn’t interested. Especially not now. Especially not when he has a detachable, pulsating showerhead to enjoy.


	9. "Buy. This. Red. Phone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vh69jo25lJs  
> And yeah, I'm aware it doesn't snow in LA. But fuck that, just for this story's sake.

Everybody, including Brad, leaves him alone for most of the time they’re on tour until the last day when they’re sitting backstage watching Hoobastank warm up the crowd. “So...you going home after this is over?”

Chester frowns slightly, “Yeah,” he says, “Why?”

Brad shifts and wraps his arms around himself. The way he sits reminds Chester of the way Brad looked when he had just woken up to his pale face in the hospital. He looks insecure, and rejected. “Just wondered if you were…you know. But you can come get your stuff whenever you want.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Huh?” Brad offers helplessly.

“I’m coming home to your place, Bradford.”

Imagine a little boy at Christmas, his face lighting up with delight – that’s how Brad looks right now. Chester grins at him and nudges him with his elbow. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he giggles quietly before he’s dragged away by a sound technician and mic’ed up for the final performance of a tour he doubts he’ll miss.

***

“Look, I don’t do commercials.”

Mike jumps up from where he is lying on the couch with his head in Rob’s lap, the drummer running his hand through his boyfriend’s hair.

“But over six thousand Africans will die today of HIV related disease.”

On screen is Chester wearing a red T-shirt, standing against a red backdrop, holding a red phone helping do his bit for the world.

“And buying this Motored phone will help reduce that number.”

He stares at the screen in disbelief. The gay rock star doing the whole anti-AIDS thing. Of course.

“So I’m saying in this commercial…”

This is unbelievable. And the press will have a field day. And isn’t this his band? Shouldn’t he know what all of the members are doing at any one time?

“…buy this red phone.” Says the TV.

***

Chester and Brad over did it last night. Having nothing to do the next day neither of them saw any reason not to, but now that there are little men drilling at the back of his eyeballs, Chester regrets everything.

The shrill ring of the phone echoes through the house, making Chester jump. Where the fuck is he? What the fuck is going on?

Oh right. He’s in his bed at Brad’s house. It’s noon. The phone is ringing.

Okay so now all he has to do is roll over and go back to sleep, leaving Brad to answer the phone. Simple.

The phone keeps right on ringing.

Brad’s an asshole. He’s the guest here. He shouldn’t have to raise a finger. But he does. Crawls across the bed and grabs the phone from the cradle and mumbles “Bradford’s home of the half dead.”

“What the fuck is with this commercial?”

“Good morning Mike.” Chester knows he means the cell-phone commercial. He only told Brad about it because he couldn’t handle calling Mike’s house and imagining him and Rob pottering around like the domestic bitches they are. Yes, he’s jealous, and no, he doesn’t think that jealousy will ever go away. So he tries to avoid situations that will make him feel that way.

That, and he doubted Mike would approve. Chester has always been all for charities and foundations and campaigns. He’s big on donations and fundraising. So when he was contacted about the commercial he jumped in and said yes. And Brad grinned from ear-to-ear, more than happy for him. “This is so cool.”

And Chester said “No, I don’t get a free cell phone.”

Brad pretended to look shocked for a moment before he caved and started laughing. Then he said “Don’t tell Mike.”

So Chester didn’t.

He had forgotten that Mike had a TV and he hadn’t thought about what would happen when he eventually saw the commercial. And into the phone he says, “How’s Rob?”

“Could you be any more fucking predictable? Jesus. Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you have to be the face of the AIDS association.”

This is so typical of Mike. Fuck the people in Africa, the children who have to fend for themselves because AIDS killed their parents. Who cares? None of it matters if the press jump on Linkin Park because their gay front man stood up for his beliefs.

What Chester has realised lately is that there are only a few kinds of people in the world. Mike falls into the category of those who don’t live for themselves. Mike hasn’t done anything for himself for as long as Chester has known him. He barely does anything for the man he supposedly loves, but that could just be Chester being a jealous prick again.

Either way – all Mike thinks about is the band, their reputation, their finances. His mind is one big schedule with subsections and highlighted parts.

Unless Linkin Park is touring, LA is the only state in the country and America is the only country in the world. There are no droughts or floods; there is no starvation or war. There’s just the band and their entourage. Nothing else matters.

This applies now.

“You’re taking this the wrong way, Mike. It’s an important commercial okay?”

“You don’t understand, Chester.”

“No,” Chester snaps, “You don’t understand. There are thousands of people dying and all you care about is how the press will go ‘haha that man is gay and doing an AIDS commercial what a hoot’. I have the mother of all headaches right now and I really can’t handle your shallow, self absorbed bullshit. Good bye.”

He thumbs the call button and throws the phone across the room where it meets the door and the back breaks off. Brad will kill him, but until then he is free to bury himself into his cocoon of sheets and forget about everything else for a few more hours.

***

The first snow of the year falls on the day of Brad’s birthday. Chester disappears from the party that is raging inside and slinks out to the back porch. He steps outside and sighs quietly, his breath a cloud of white warmth erupting in front of his face.

The snow lay in a thick layer across the garden, no footprints yet marring its surface. He’s so busy admiring the sight that he misses Rob sitting on the porch steps with his head leaning across the railing until the drummer turns to him and murmurs, “Hey.”

Chester jumps. Fucking sneaky bastard. He could have sworn he was alone. Fights an inner battle with himself before moving to join him on the steps. “Hey yourself.” He sits on the same step as Rob, stretching his legs out in front of himself. “Bored?”

“I like the snow.” Rob says quietly and watches as a Magpie drops down from the tree to dig at the snow. He pulls a hand from where it is jammed in his hoodie pocket to salute the bird.

Chester tries not to look at him strangely but it happens anyway. Rob glances at him and smiles. “Magpies mate for life. If there’s one on its own it means that their partner has died or they haven’t met anybody yet. You have to salute them. One for sorrow blah blah.”

“Do you believe in that?”

Rob blushes faintly, “I’ve always been superstitious.”

“No,” Chester murmurs, not sure why they’re talking so quietly but not wanting to be the one to change it, “no I mean…mating for life. You know. One partner.”

“Yeah I guess I do,” says Rob dreamily.

And just when Chester thought things were getting easier he realises they’re not. The yard in front of him gets cloudy and blurry and a hot tear streaks down his cheek. He’s aware of Rob watching him, says “Too much beer.”

Rob doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out and cups Chester’s chin. It feels like everything is in slow motion and there’s nobody else, just the two of them. And the snow.

Chester’s last thought is about how beautiful Rob’s eyes are but then there are lips on his and all he can think is oh my fucking god we’re kissing. In his head he pretends they’re together and that they’re celebrating the first snow together. Rob is his boyfriend who loves him very much.

Then the door opens. Slams closed again and, when they break away and look up, Mike’s retreating back can be seen through the glass. Neither of them move for a long moment but when Rob does he’s like lightning. He jumps up and stands at the door fidgeting. Over his shoulder he whispers “Sorry.”

And the magpie from the garden flies away.


	10. Nobody likes an STD

Chester gets up after a while and drifts back in doors. Rob is sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands and Mike is standing in front of him saying “You’re so fucking unbelievable.” The music drowns his voice out briefly then Chester catches “How can you do this to him?”

He’s not sure how he should feel about this. Mike should be mad at Rob, yes, but not like this. Mike feels sorry for him. And it makes Chester feel sick.

He contemplates going to bed but decides to get very, very drunk instead. Dan Estrin from Hoobastank hovers by the punch bowl watching Doug and Chris make out on the couch with a raised eyebrow. Chester dips his Dixie cup into the bowl of something red and downs it in one go. “Think they’ll fuck?”

Dan laughs easily, “Hopefully. The sexual tension between them makes me want to lock them in a room together. Having fun?”

“Yeah,” Chester says with a genuine smile “I am.”

***

They fuck, of course. People are still getting drunk and laughing and dancing when they jog upstairs, Chester leading the way and Dan following with his hands gripping the belt loops at the back of Chester’s jeans.

Dan pushes him into the bedroom from behind, kicking the door closed and making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. Chester copies, pulling his shirt over his head, kicking off his shoes and unfastening his pants. They’re completely undressed in record time and their lips meet in a messy kiss that’s all tongues and teeth and Chester moans quietly into Dan’s mouth.

Dropping to his knees, Dan wraps his mouth around Chester’s cock, sucking lightly. He presses his tongue against the underside, tracing the vein teasingly. Chester moans lowly and tries hard not to buck his hips but it’s been so long since anybody did this to him that it’s hard. Dan’s fingers are digging hard into his hips, hard enough to bruise.

He pulls away when Chester’s hands tangle in his hair and tug hard. He wants to say something but all that comes out of his mouth is a moan and a quiet gasp. Dan gets to his feet and their lips meet again as they shuffle towards the bed. Chester climbs onto it and lies down, spread wantonly atop the sheets. He beckons for Dan to join him, his bottom lip between his teeth.

Dan straddles Chester’s waist, wiggles his fingers in front of his face. Obediently, Chester takes them into his mouth, sucking on them hard. His left hand drifts between them to wrap around Dan’s cock stroking slowly. Dan moans and closes his eyes, murmurs huskily “Got a rubber?”

Chester raises an eyebrow, pulls Dan’s fingers from his mouth saying “I’m clean.”

“Sorry dude. No condom, no entry.”

Fair enough. Nobody likes an STD. Not the nicest thing you could give a person. Chester reaches over to the bedside table and opens the drawer. He fumbles through the junk blindly, his fingers running over pieces of paper with phone numbers on them and throat lozenges.

Dan looks over and says “To the left.” Then “Up. Up a little bit.” Chester’s fist closes around the foil packet and Dan smirks “Bingo.”

As Chester tears the packet open and rolls the condom over his erection Dan pushes two fingers into himself with a groan. The view has Chester staring open mouthed. Dan drops his head back and adds a third finger, fucking himself quickly before removing them and scooting further up Chester’s body.

He reaches back and guides Chester’s cock into his body, thrusting down quickly with a groan. They lay still for a long minute, Chester staring up at Dan with dark eyes, breathing deeply. The guitarist leans forward, planting his hands either side of Chester’s head as he picks himself up and slams back down again.

Everywhere Dan touches Chester burns. Brad was right – the guys of Hoobastank are hot. And, right now, Chester isn’t thinking about Rob.

And, for the first time in a long time, it isn’t Rob’s name he shouts when he comes.

***

Wakes up the next day and wishes he was dead. He can’t think what could have woke him up seeing as he feels ready to slip into a coma, but then he notices his cell phone vibrating across the top of the drawers. Rolling out of bed and hitting the floor heavily he wonders why he’s alive.

He grabs the phone. Thumbs the call button and lies down on the floor, muttering “Hello?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

Shit. What? “Huh?”

“Mike is going ballistic. You were meant to be here half an hour ago. When I woke you up this morning you said you’d be here.”

“Remind me where, Brad.”

“Mike’s place you fucking moron.” Brad snaps, irritated. “Look. I don’t give a shit about anything he’s going on about but he wants us all together to discuss the next album and this is really pissing him off. So get your shit together and get over here.” Pause. “And you might want to borrow some of my clothes.”

“Why?”

“Last night, after you came back downstairs with Dan, told everybody loudly that you’d done a line of coke off his belly, you then drank everything in sight and I had to help you upstairs. I left the room for a second to like, get you some water and I came back to you…pissing into your wardrobe.”

Oh. Holy. Jesus.

“So all of your clothes are in the washing machine.”

Oh mother of God.

“Get your ass here as soon as you can, dude. Mike is turning purple.”

The line goes dead. And Chester drops the phone. And prays the world opens up and swallows him whole.

***

He arrives at Mike’s after a long shower, which he would have usually spent enjoying the full talent of his left hand but instead spent staring blankly at the tile wall wondering what the fuck was going on. Rob answered the door and led him into the studio where the others were waiting, all looking amused except Mike.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Traffic was a nightmare.” Chester sighs, taking a seat beside Joe who snorts and ducks his head.

Mike looks livid, “You fucking walked.”

“So?” Chester shrugs, “Traffic was still a nightmare.”

The entire time he’s there everybody avoids looking at him until Mike leaves the room for a moment. That’s when they all burst out laughing.

“You guys.” Rob says, looking around, “Come on. Cut it out. Chester you’ve really pushed his buttons this time.”

“I slept in. Are you going to spank me?”

Rob, he stares blankly and says “If you play your cards right.”

When Mike walks back in the tension in the room is immense and he says “Could we please just have one day where we don’t have a domestic? Please?”

Nobody misses the look he shoots Rob. Knows exactly what’s going on. Chester smiles easily, says “Can I take a cigarette break? Please?”

Mike rolls his eyes and looks like he might kick up a fuss because he has to but nods and sighs anyway saying “Be quick.”

Rob gets to his feet and whispers something in Mike’s ear, before following Chester out the door.

***

They stand outside, their shoulders pressed together as they huddle on Mike’s porch trying to keep warm. Chester’s cigarette burns away between his fingers slowly and he just watches it.

“Thought you needed to smoke.”

“I need a lot of things,” says Chester, raising his left hand and taking a drag from the cigarette. “Why did you follow me?”

Rob shrugs, wraps his arms around himself and shivers “Needed the fresh air.”

Chester thinks, that’s bullshit. Because it is. But who is he to say anything? “It’s not so fresh.” He says and exhales a long stream of smoke into the air in front of Rob.

The drummer coughs, smiles easily, “Yeah. Maybe not. Do you know what they put in those things?”

“No. Do you know what I put in them?”

Rob laughs. The answer is pot and they both know it.

Chester says “Why did you follow me?” Pauses, then “Really?”

Rob stares across the street and shrugs again “Wanted to know what was up.”

“Nothing. Nothing is up,” Chester assures him. It’s a lie, of course. But the truth is getting old. Even for him.

“You’re in love with me.”

This is one of the most anticlimactic moments of his life. After all of the heartache and the confusion and the drama, to hear it out in the open like that, as if it’s just that simple. To hear it just slip from Rob’s lips makes Chester laugh quietly and say “Yeah. I am.” He nips the end of his cigarette and flicks the ash to the ground, says “And you know what? It’s the shittiest feeling in the world.”

He drops the half finished cigarette back into the box and jams it in his back pocket. As he turns to head back inside Rob grabs his arm, “Wait.”

Their eyes meet and Chester can read Rob better than he ever has. He looks scared, confused, and most of all lost. “You don’t have to say anything. But could you do me one thing?”

Rob nods, earnestly, desperate to appease.

“Let me fall out of love with you. Because I can’t do this anymore.”

And Rob nods again, “Yeah. I can do that.”

Chester forces a smile as he tugs his wrist from Rob’s grasp. He doesn’t say thank you, just slips back inside without another word.


	11. Don't fear the reaper

The next day Chester gets in his car and drives away. He promises Brad he won’t be gone long and it isn’t a lie. He tells everybody he’s going to visit family – which is a lie. He is going to Arizona, but not to see anybody – quite the opposite.

He wants to be alone, on the road on his own.

Half way down the road, doing 90, he doesn’t know what the limit is and he doesn’t care, his phone rings and Brad goes “Hey look I-”

“Stop worrying about me.”

“Why are you doing this again?”

“I just need some space,” says Chester, foot pressed hard to the floor, “I need to...get away.”

“If you come back dead I’ll kill you,” warns Brad, but he sounds genuinely worried and Chester sighs softly.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay. Bye Chaz.”

“Bye,” he murmurs and hangs up, throwing his cell into the passenger seat and switching gears. The engine of his Porsche 911 roars to life as he puts his foot down. Nought to sixty in four point one seconds, boasted the salesman, puffing his chest out and digging his hands into his pockets.

“Top speed of a 911 GT3 is one-hundred and ninety-three.” He beams. Then he rattles off a load of numbers and Chester just nods, not really understanding it all. But it goes fast, that he understands, and it makes him want to masturbate so that means it’s a brilliant car.

He hits one-hundred and fifty and reaches out to turn on the CD player, blasting Blue Oyster Cult, trying to drown out the growl of the engine. And his own voice in his head.

“It’s a race car,” the dealer had said, following Chester as he circled the car, “or that’s what it was made for. But people buy it for city driving mostly.”

Chester didn’t care what other people bought it for. Trailing his hand over the spoiler he said, “Never does what it was meant for then?”

The dealer shakes his head. And Chester thinks about how everybody in the world can relate to this car. He thinks about how he was meant to go to college and settle down with a wife and kids. He thinks about how none of us ever really reach our full potential. In his defence, he was stoned. And this is the excuse he used when he pulled up outside Brad’s house, revving the engine and hanging out of the window shouting “BRAD!”

Brad had laughed. Made some comment about price and about the race-car driver who had called asking for his vehicle back. But he’d fallen in love with it eventually, especially when Chester had taken him driving at night. Empty roads and stars and breaking the speed limit and the feeling of being free.

He runs through a pothole so deep the CD skips and he curses under his breath. Fucking Arizona.

He wishes there was someone else here. Someone who would talk to him and drown out his thoughts of Rob and the mental image of him and Mike kissing and being so in love, love, love all the God Damn time.

One-hundred and seventy five and he reaches for his cell phone. Nearly knocks himself out on the steering wheel as he hits another pothole and hisses. He slides his phone open and dials Brad’s number, listening to it ring as he hits one-hundred and eighty.

“Hey I’m not here so leave a message and I’ll call you back unless I owe you money in which case I won’t call you back and I’m not sorry ha! Oh fuck. Oops. Um. I’m out of time so – ”

Chester rolls his eyes as the machine beeps for him to leave a message. “Brad. Pick up your phone you dickwad. Please? Please pick up?”

The CD player skips as he hits another pothole and jumps to Don’t Fear The Reaper and Chester says “Listen, here’s your favourite song,” he presses the phone against the speaker in the door and lets Brad’s answer machine record the song as he hits one-hundred and ninety.

He runs through another pothole and he drops his cell phone down the side of the door. “Fuck,” he mutters and reaches down to get it. He hits another pothole and the steering wheel spins in his hands then something at the front of the car explodes. A tire, he supposes as bits of black rubber fly past the window and the rest of it flaps free around the wheel which is still spinning at one-hundred and ninety miles per hour.

Chester tries to gain control of the car as it spins three times before the wheel with the destroyed tire hits a ditch at the side of the road and sends the entire thing flipping over its self repeatedly.

The windscreen shatters and the airbags explode in front of him, pinning him back against the seat as the roof bends inwards, the metal pressing against his head. He can’t feel his legs until the car settles on its roof and then a fire spreads through his body and up his spine.

Blood drips from his chin and up his nose making it impossible to breathe. Tears are hot on his cheeks and dust clouds his vision and the CD player skips and Eric Bloom croons over and over, “They looked backwards and said goodbye.”

His arm is crushed between the dented door and the side of the seat, dislocated and limp. It hurts so much. He tries his best not to think about it and reaches up to where his cell phone lies on the roof of the car, blood dripping on the keys. But his arm cracks as he tries to move it from under the seatbelt and he cries out in agony, giving up.

There’s a certain irony, knowing that he’ll die here, the one place he promised himself he’d never die. He had always wanted to go out in style, but not here, not like this – trapped, in pain and helpless.

He tries again to reach for his cell phone but all he can do is just stare at it and cry in fear. He doesn’t want to die. He prays to God through cracked lips and a mouthful of blood, “Give me anything than this, give me living to ninety on my own, lonely and depressed. Please don’t let me die here.”

But past experience has taught him that God can’t hear him from Arizona.

***

Brad rushes to the machine, holding a wet towel around his waist and picks up the phone. “Chester?” He yells frantically down the line getting nothing but a crackle and the occasional hiss down the line, “Chester what’s going on? What’s happened?!”

He already knows, deep down. For a minute the hissing stops and he can hear a quiet whimpering and the tinny sound of a CD jumping and jumping, saying “don’t fear the reaper.”

Then there’s a beep and the recorded message of a woman says “The other person has cleared.”

And Brad, he drops the phone and stares at it in silence.

And, as he races upstairs to get dressed and then rushes out the door, the phone keeps right on saying “The other person has cleared.”


End file.
